The Eyes of The Soldier
by Flashback 1701
Summary: "Nothing shows in the soldier's cold glare, but he can sense discord behind the smooth façade of discipline and order. Somewhere within his hollow chest beats a mass of unshed tears and solid regrets, held in place by pride and absolute control." Oneshot.


Hetaverse. GerIta. Oneshot. Angst.

Ludwig's guilt and regrets as a soldier.

* * *

><p>Empty blue eyes stare back at him, robbing him of the ability to pull back or look away. The man before him says nothing but observes him with obvious disgust. Before this gaze he is reminded of his weaknesses, his imperfections, and he has no choice but to wallow in them.<p>

This man is a soldier, programmed to faithfully carry out his duties with precision and frigid indifference. He has stared down the barrel of a rife with women and children in his sight, he has killed men in every manner possible, he has bathed his hands in the crimson life force of his victims, and yet he remains stoic. He has no heart left to be pierced with the bitter sting of guilt.

Nothing shows in the soldier's cold glare, but he can sense discord behind the smooth façade of discipline and order. Somewhere within his hollow chest beats a mass of unshed tears and solid regrets, held in place by pride and absolute control. It is simply an over-wrought time bomb, tick-tick-ticking down to the second of destruction in which his mask will shatter and the fortress he's built around himself will crumble beneath his countless sins.

A diamond droplet glints on a pale cheek before it slips away and is lost to the dark material of a uniform, dyed black with blood. He doesn't look away, he cannot because the man before him is naught but a flat impersonation of himself. Silently, the mirror mocks him. A second tear follows the first down his jaw line and off his stubborn chin, but still no life is visible in his vacant eyes.

"Germany." The whisper hits the still air and shatters it. Gentle pressure applied to his shoulder makes him start, head snapping to find the owner of the kind hand.

"Italy."

He is the reason the mask is slipping, the reason the screws holding down his sanity are rusting and giving way. It is almost disgusting the way he bears his emotions like a banner for all to see, yet there is something wonderful about his beautiful smile and his awful tears. He is a mystery, a puzzle that will remain forever unsolved.

A cool thumb rests against the taller man's pale cheek, gingerly drying the sparkling trails of grief. No words are spoken, but comfort is conveyed effortlessly through the warmth in his smile, in his toffee-colored eyes. He squeezes gently at the young German's broad arm, as though to remind him that they both exist on the same physical plane, and kisses at his sharp jaw. The silence is peaceful as it settles upon the pair, a soft blanket that is draped easily across two sets of shoulders.

After a long moment, the blond man shrugs away the contented fuzziness and manages to pry apart his fiercely clenched teeth long enough to ask, "What do you see that I don't?"

"_Che?_"

His voice cracks like his dry, whitened lips as words ghost past the freshly spilt blood. "How can you still bear to look at me when you know what I've done?"

"Because," the brunet replies, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. "No matter what happened in the past, Germany is with me in the present. And maybe he did bad things in the last world war, and maybe we all did, but even then, I can't leave Germany because I love him so much."

There is an unspoken question buzzing in Italian ears, so he answers unabashed.

"I love Germany because he is strong and loyal and kind and even the best people in the world make terrible mistakes." Hands tug at the painfully familiar, red armband that is contrasting so brightly with the black fabric of the old uniform. "But nobody forgets the mistakes, do they?"

"Never."

The smaller man frowns and begins unfastening the other's shiny buttons. One by one, they disappear behind the dark cloth like stars on a cloudy night. A sharp jerk relieves the soldier of his military tunic, leaving him clad in only a dress shirt and tie. These, too, follow the jacket to the floor until he is standing half naked before the mirror. Without the uniform, it is so easy to pretend that he is just another man, one with fewer sins and a greater margin for error. Those eyes, those cold sapphires, remind him otherwise.

For reasons unknown, tears begin to stream down his thin cheeks and gather at his chin where they dangle with surface tension before letting themselves finally snap free to meet the solid pectorals below. There is shame joining the tangle of emotions within his chest, but also relief and appreciation and fear. And love.

"I can't, Italy."

"Can't what, Germany?" Then with perfect confidence, he continues by saying, "Germany can do anything."

The timer on the atomic mass pulsing where a heart might have once been clicks into a rapid count down, marking the time until he is broken completely. All at once, the corners of his mouth stretch into an upward smirk and a downward frown. His lips shiver like they haven't since he was a child.

"I can't…" He repeats one last time before the hand strikes zero and he is lost in the force of the blast. Falling forward, he feels his sobs breaking free like dry heaves. Shoulders shuddering against the weight of formerly repressed sorrow, guilt, self loathing, he collapses in on himself. There is too much, and he knows too little.

An embrace falls around him like a winter coat, bracing him against the icy rage of an internal blizzard. He can feel the other man's tears on his cheeks as soft lips kiss away the salty droplets. Kind murmurs and shushing noises buzz gently in his ears, setting a rhythm for his own shuddering breath.

"Germany can do anything." Again he is insisting the impossible. "But if Germany can't forget, how can he expect others to?"

"I-I don't." The bawling man's words are disrupted by awkward inhalations to fill trembling lungs. "I-I can't."

"Then will Germany forgive?" Loving fingers trace the skin stretched across an empty chest cavity. "Even if no one else will… will Germany forgive himself?"

"N-never."

"Then I will forgive Germany for him." A warm mouth follows the fingertips, kissing tenderly what couldn't be broken for it had fled.

Closing his burning, streaming eyes, the man draws the other closer to him and allows himself to imagine that the heartbeat he feels through the other's flesh is his own. The steady thrum represents life, love, and hope; all things that he has lost faith in, but perhaps this once he can pretend that they are still within his grasp.


End file.
